Shu’s friend had appointed him to oversee an experimental program that had considerable opposition. Looking back, Shu was glad he’d put his reservations aside.
What was learned from operating in the Uighurs had proven invaluable in advancing transplant surgery. It was a brilliant plan: harvesting organs from dissidents detained in internment camps.
The region was a hotbed of anti-China sentiment, and though the leaders were concerned resistance would spread, they opposed Gao’s plan. Shu wasn’t there during the debates but heard Gao sealed it by pointing out they were having dissidents ‘disappear,’ so, why not get some value out of them?
The Party was steadfast in its denial the experiments were taking place, but the rumors circulated, helping to tamp down a Turkestan independence movement.
It was the stepping-stone to Shu’s other success, the prison program. The pair of wins made Shu’s idea to create a program in the United States an easy one for Gao to sanction.
At 5:30, he finished his tea and made the call.
“How are you, my dearest schoolmate?”
“Very well. Getting ready to have dinner with Chan. We’re going to the old neighborhood, to Mama Xian.”
“Ah, brings back many memories.”
“Next time you’re in, we’ll go back together.”
“I’d like that. Remember the time we drank that entire bottle of baijiu?”
Gao laughed. “I still can’t drink it without recalling that day.”
“Me either. My mother was so angry with me. I was punished for a week.”
“I was lucky my father was in Shanghai. My grandfather never said a word. He asked me if I’d learned a lesson; he should only know.”
“He was a good man.”
“Indeed. How are things in America?”
“Very well.”
“What about the expansion?”
“We’re taking it slow.”
“We agreed to a ramp-up.”
“I know, it’s just the incident created by Fung has me believing we should proceed cautiously.”
“Let me remind you of the proverb our ancestors built this great nation on: A man grows most tired while standing still.”
“Don’t misunderstand my caution; we’re moving ahead.”
“It’s my belief we must adhere to the plan, including the timeline. We have no time to waste.”
Shu wanted to remind his friend of another Chinese proverb—a little impatience will spoil great plans—but said, “I understand and will make sure we get back on track.”
“Excellent. Now, tell me, are you in a relationship?”
“No, been too busy to even think about it.”
“Make time. You’re the only one in your family. Who is going to carry on the family name?”
“It’ll happen when it does; I can’t force it.”
“Nothing happens by chance. We must impose our will to secure what we want.”
“I was hoping for a relationship you’d see in a Chinawood film.”
“It sounds like my friend is turning into an idealist. Perhaps you’re spending too much time in America.”
Shu snickered, “I just don’t want an arranged marriage.”
“You say it as if people were miserable. You learn to care for each other and build a life together. Do you know marriages brokered by the families end in divorce ten times less than a so-called marriage for love?”
“That’s interesting. Speaking of statistics, I must commend you on your initiatives. China now has the shortest wait period for an organ.”
“China has shown the world what is possible. Everyone touts the American system as the benchmark, but we’ve driven wait times down to under two months. In America, it is over three years.”
“A laudable achievement. I was honored to play a small role in your plans.”
“Shu, you’ve contributed a great deal. You’ll be rewarded when you return home.”
“No reward is necessary. I believe in advancing the transplant cause. And uh, um, show the world that China is a capable leader.”
“Good, but the Party insists it show its gratitude.”
Shu knew the money and positions they gave were more like bribery than a thank you, but said, “I’m grateful for whatever may be bestowed.”
“Chan is pointing at the clock. We must get going. It was good to catch up. When can I expect an update?”
“Uh, a couple of days at most. Give my regards to Chan.”
Shu took the SIM card out of the phone. It had taken him four years to get where they were. The first year they performed fifteen transplants; the next year they reached twenty-seven. In year three it rose to forty-nine, and this year they were on track to break a hundred.
He’d encountered bumps, but excluding a couple of missteps, their survival rate eclipsed many American hospitals. They hadn’t attempted heart or lung transplants, but their unconventional setup had patients being released earlier from less-than-stellar surroundings.
Shu was wary. A significant ramp-up could jeopardize his accomplishment.
Chapter Thirty
Cory walked through Little Italy and turned onto Lafayette Street. A plaque proclaimed a small park, Lt. Petrosino Square. Cory thought it was odd. The SOHO refuge was triangular. He saw Black studying passersby from a bench.
“I lived my whole life in the city; where do you come up with these places?”
Black shrugged. “The story behind this one is damn good. Petrosino was a fearless New York City cop in the early nineteen hundreds. He was the first Italian detective on the force, and he tangled with the Black Hand.”
“The Black Hand?”
“It’s what they called the mafia back then. Petrosino developed a lot of techniques to fight crime they still use today. He even started the city’s first bomb squad.”
“Wow. What happened to him?”
“He was set up and killed in Sicily. He was getting evidence against scores of convicted criminals who’d moved to America. He’s still the only New York cop killed outside the States while on duty.”
“They set him up?”
“Yeah. Someone in the department tipped off the mobsters, and they shot him dead. The city gave him some funeral. A couple of hundred thousand people came into the streets to pay their respects.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
“He looked out for the regular guy. The store owners were getting shaken down, and he put an end to a lot of it. You should check him out online; nobody could scare him off.”
“I will.”
Black stared straight ahead but said nothing.
Cory waited ten beats before breaking the silence. “Take a look at these.”
Black took Cory’s phone. “What temperature?”
“Fifty.”
Black handed the phone back. “Not bad.”
“I didn’t take a shot of it, but I stayed under for a good minute, probably two.”
“Told you the breathing works.”
“I know, it only felt like fifty-five.”
Black smiled. “You can get used to thirty. You just have to work at it.”
“I know you don’t think I can focus, but playing music requires a super amount of concentration.”
“I’m sure it does, but beating the elements, or another man, is another matter.”
“Teach me.”
“You?”
“Why not? Tell me how to get better control of my mind and emotions.”
“You’re a musician. The type of stuff you’re talking about will kill your creativity.”
“It won’t. I’ve been playing music since I can remember. Wrote my first song at nine, for my mom.”
“Why would you want to try and learn what I do?”
“It’s a good thing to know.”
“It’s not like learning to skateboard.”
“I get it.”
“In what I do, it’s the difference between life and death.”
“Teach me
.”
“It’s a way of life, a state of mind. Like you with the music, I’ve been doing it forever.”
“I’m not looking to get to your level, but I want more control.”
“It’s not about control. You can only control so much; the key is your reaction.”
“Like not being afraid when you’re in a dangerous situation?”
“The difference between being a coward or a hero isn’t that you don’t get scared. It’s what action you take while being scared.”
“I can do that. It’s different, but being on stage is frightening. But you got to do the show.”
“Goes way beyond that. It’s about saying less, revealing little, giving yourself wiggle room in a jam to disappear when you have to.”
“Not trusting anyone.”
“Bingo. You can only rely on yourself. Everyone else is a leak, a threat, a potential problem.”
“Even family.”
“Uh-huh. It’s just what it is.”
“I really regret calling my wife when you said not to.”
Black nodded. “And telling me where you were hiding out.”
“Yeah, but it worked out.”
“Maybe, but by saying too much, you blew your cover.”
“I know. I got lucky.”
“Luck is bullshit. What makes the difference is preparation, seeing around corners, and especially, developing sources for info.”
“How did you find out about paying illegals for organs?”
“It just made sense. They need the money, and they’re invisible.”
“You just thought it up?”
He nodded. “You put yourself in their shoes. What would you do if you were them?”
“But bringing them up from the border is risky.”
“It’s manageable. Any downside is offset by the fact these people need money. Something goes wrong, they aren’t going to tell the cops; they’ll fade away. Life is cheap where they come from.”
“Now they got all the supply they need.”
“Looks that way.”
“What would you do to shut these guys down?”
“I don’t know that you can stop it. If people want something, they’ll find ways to get it.”
“I get it, but these bastards kidnapped Ava. They took a piece of her liver. I got to do something.”
“The best thing you can do is to let it go.”
“I can’t. I tried, but you know what? I’m her father, I’m her protector.”
“I told you from the get-go, these people are sophisticated.”
“Tell me what you’d do.”
“You’ve got to get inside the organization. That’s the only way to get enough evidence to bring them down. I’m not saying they won’t regroup, but it’ll put a big hurt on ’em.”
“You mean going undercover?”
“Yep.”
“How could you do that?”
“It would take time. You’d have to identify someone affiliated with them, gain their trust, and find a position with them.”
“They’re probably all Chinese. We’d have to find an Asian.”
“Or a doctor or nurse.”
“You think a doctor would do something like that?”
“Or someone pretending to be a doctor.”
“But what if they made him or her do a surgery? They’d have to run.”
“A nurse then. Or someone with good medical knowledge of transplants.”
“Maybe I could get a nurse from one of Mount Sinai’s transplant teams.”
“Good idea. They could say they were looking to make extra money.”
“Yeah. That would work.”
“It’ll take time to get them to accept someone from the outside, but once they’re in, they’ll do damage.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Cory turned off Avenue A onto East Ninth Street. The heart of the East Village pulsated with activity. Cory patted the money Black had told him to bring. Black was his cryptic self, making Cory excited but nervous over what the operative had planned.
He stopped in front of the Sullivan Street Bakery and checked the storefront’s address. They were meeting in a bakery? As a customer left the store, Cory was enveloped in the comforting aroma of bread.
He grabbed the door before it closed and stepped in. Holding a gym bag, Black was talking to a bald man in a full apron. Black pointed to a stairway at the rear of the store.
Cory was halfway up when he heard Black’s feet hit the treads. Cory turned around. “This place makes me hungry.”
“It’s the only place I get bread.”
“Everybody says New York has the best bread because of the water.”
“Up for debate. The watershed is in the Catskills. During the months-long journey to the city, it picks up a lot of minerals. Some say that’s what it is, and others claim it’s the production method. I don’t care, I just know I like it.”
Cory stopped at the landing. Black inserted a key and swung open a door to a room dusted with flour. Cory followed Black down an aisle of supplies to a room with a pair of green-felted tables.
Cory thought about the large sum of money he was carrying. He wasn’t a gambler. “We going to play cards?”
“No. Sit in the armchair.” Black opened his bag, taking out a small machine with a bunch of accessories.
Cory pointed to a cuff and hose. “Is that for blood pressure?”
“Yes. You need to learn to control your physical reactions.” Black took Cory’s hands, putting a rubber cap on a finger and pasting a sensor on his other palm. “A good place to start is fooling a lie detector test.”
“You can beat those?”
Black nodded as he put two devices on his body and fitted the blood pressure cuff on Cory’s upper arm. “It’s about measuring your blood pressure, breathing, pulse, and sweat glands. When you lie, they ramp up. The key is to confuse your responses to control questions like what day it is. You need to have your body react like you’re lying when you tell the truth.”
“How do I do that?”
“There are a couple of ways. The pros bring a stressful situation to mind, increasing their blood pressure and sweat excretion. Others do it by counting backward by sevens. The idea is to control your responses.”
“But I’ll never have to take a lie detector test.”
“Probably not. But I’ve been forced to when undercover. Either way, you’ll learn how to focus, not on what’s happening, but your reaction to it.”
Black began asking questions, and the machine spit out graph paper with jagged lines. He stopped the test. “You’re not trying hard enough. Focus, focus, focus.”
Cory failed again. Black said, “Try this.” He pulled out a thumbtack. “Put it in your shoe and press your foot on it when answering a control question. The pain will trigger elevated blood pressure and breathing.”
“Like they did in Ocean’s Eleven?”
“I don’t watch TV. You could also bite your tongue, but it has to hurt.”
“I really don’t feel like stabbing myself in the foot.”
“It’s never a matter of feelings. Emotion kills. You have to do what you have to.”
Cory wanted to leave. It didn’t seem relative to the seed of an idea he had on stopping the gang.
“Let’s go. We have work to do.”
Cory slipped a foot out of his sneaker and fingered the tack.
“Put it in next to your big toe.”
“Damn!” Cory jabbed himself putting his foot back in.
Black rolled his eyes. “Can’t be crying.”
Cory wanted to stick the tack in Black’s eye. “Go ahead, ask your questions.”
“Do you have children?”
Cory lifted his toe and pressed on the tack as he answered yes. Suppressing a grunt, he saw Black nod slightly.
“What month is this?”
Cory repeated the stab.
“Have you ever ridden on a bus?”
“I get the point. I d
on’t want my damn toe to become Swiss cheese.”
“Now, try to emulate the reaction without stepping on the thumbtack.”
They ran through a series of questions and Black said, “Not bad for the first go-round.”
Though his toe hurt, Cory felt a surge of pride. “What else you have planned for me?”
“Let’s take a ride to Times Square.”
“That where we’re going to need the money?”
Black shook his head. “The ten grand was a test, to make sure you were serious.”
The sidewalks were packed at the Forty-Third Street and Broadway intersection. Black headed north on Broadway into a sea of people. Cory tried following him.
The operative was a city block ahead when Cory lost sight of him. Cory bounced into a linebacker-sized man. “Sorry, man,” he said and saw Black standing outside the Disney store off Forty-Sixth Street.
Cory hugged the building. “How’d you get through all that?”
“Focus on the spaces.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at anyone, just find the space and go to the next one.”
“You didn’t bump into one person?”
“Not really, brushed by a couple. Let’s do it again. Don’t follow me. Focus on where people aren’t, and no matter what, don’t get distracted.”
Black melted into the crowd. When he disappeared, Cory stepped into the flow and headed for the spaces between people. He got half a block without a problem, but when he thought about it, banged into someone.
Cory stepped aside and regrouped before plunging back in. Black had a smile on when Cory emerged at Forty-Third Street. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
“I guess. It’s weird that it works.”
“The great race car drivers focus on the spaces between the cars.”
“Never thought about it that way.”
“The other thing you’ve got to do is visualize. It’s practicing for success.”
“You know, when I had to audition for Jay Bird, and he was way at the top then, I was nervous like never before. Then I saw an interview with that skier Lindsey Vonn. She talked about visualizing the ski run before a race. Said when it came time to go, she felt like she’d been on the course a hundred times.”
“Yep. You create a reality in your head, and it’ll come true.”
Cory's Shift Page 11